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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776760">Fear and Force</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger'>Theartfulldodger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Gen, Guilt, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt, Post-War, Returning to Hogwarts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:14:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The students return to Hogwarts to complete their education after the war. Draco struggles to deal with the emotional implications.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fear and Force</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All these years later and I still come back to Draco Malfoy. His complexities and layers make him such an interesting character. I don't think I will ever be bored of working out his intricacies and the possible paths he takes. This is a quick one-shot to explore what it might be like for him on the train back to Hogwarts. If you and I share a mildly unhealthy obsession with one blonde Slytherin, come say 'hi' <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/graymatters">on Tumblr.</a></p><p>Title from an acoustic instrumental by Boreal Monkey.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Exhaustion radiates from Draco’s slender face, visible even in his dimmed reflection watching from the window. Darkened moons grace the skin under his eyes, nearly translucent over the pointed bones lying just below the surface. A practiced, bored expression paints his face, projecting apathy amidst the dull, grey cast to his skin, the dry patches on his forehead. Evidence to the contrary is displayed in irritated, red splotches dancing about his neck, remnants of nervous ticks and phantom itches.</p><p>            Draco sits alone amidst an oppressing quiet on the train, cocooned in the comfort of a heating charm. A passing thought suggests that it’s his best wandless charm yet, but he does not engage it. No one has spoken to him, and he prefers it that way. Skeletal fingers grope for a wand that is not there each time a shadowed figure is outlined in the frosted glass. The chambers of his heart contract with a bit more urgency, his lungs force the rapid rise and fall of his chest. While his mind has accepted his defenselessness until reaching Hogwarts as an indirect death sentence handed down from the Ministry itself, the ultimate puppeteer of self-preservation perseveres, retracting tendons with a flick of the wrist, abruptly waking him from sleep with a twitch of an index finger. Those strings were not so easily released.</p><p>            Some number of uneventful hours, or perhaps days, later, the train slows to a disjointed crawl, lurching to a stop in front of the platform, drenched in a warm glow of lantern light against the background of a cool late-summer evening. Draco makes no move to stand, questioning the ability of his limbs to support his rapidly-shrinking frame. Heavy is the uniform that once hugged his body, now an ocean of fabric enveloping the skin and bones underneath. Idle chatter leaks through the cracks around the door but is muffled enough to distort who is speaking, what they’re saying. This does not deter the thread of anxiety that begins to constrict itself around Draco’s throat, remaining even as the voices fade to silence.</p><p>            After weighing and dismissing the merits of simply staying on the train, Draco wills the prickling numbness to abandon his feet, his legs to straighten. For the briefest of moments, the flood of emotion spills over. Each breathe carries an immense weight, as if he is gulping down water, drowning in his inhalations. He chokes off a sob that tries to flee his lips and blinks against the burn of tears that threaten his eyes. Then the moment is over. Draco smooths his robes, focuses on the feeling of the fabric beneath his fingers, the strained muscles tugging back the blades of his shoulders, the tickle of hair that dusts his forehead. One pained deep breathe more, and he reaches for the handle of the door, shivers from the gust of cool air that immediately dismantles his heating charm. He knew not to give himself too much credit.</p><p>            The corridor is empty, a haunting quiet that is nearly tactile. A feeling of unease seeps in through the cracks under the doors, latching its grip to Draco’s ankles, tickling the pale hairs on his shins. The puppeteer tugs gently on the delicate ligaments that run the back of his neck, constricting them just-ever-so, raising his sharp chin in concerted effort to project the calm confidence that trickled through his fingers years ago.</p><p>            Several rooms ahead of Draco, a door forcefully slides open, echoing sharply down the now nearly-empty corridor. Ever-vigilant, self-preservation goes to work tirelessly, systematically activating useless physiologic function after physiologic function. Draco’s face remains impartial as Harry Potter emerges from the cabin, movements rigid, dark curls wild as ever, and a familiar look of utter fatigue on his face. He casts a glance down the hall and meets Draco’s eyes with an expression that is difficult to pinpoint. There is no menace, there is no aggression, but there is certainly no fear either. Puzzled, Draco stands unmoving, thankful his rapid breathes are hidden under his oversized robes. Potter shrugs, projecting a weary indifference to the only other passenger on the train, and turns to leave.</p><p>            Draco watches him go, his robes gently billowing behind him. His footsteps soften and slow as he nears the end of the train. He turns, eyes still betraying some unnamable emotion, and waits. Potter does not look like someone who is about to take vengeance on Draco, although a shooting pain along one of the uneven ridges that line his torso reminds him of what this man is capable.</p><p>            “Well, are you planning to ride the train back to London?” Potter asks.</p><p>            Pride always winning out when it comes to Potter, Draco again urges his legs forward, rapidly approaching a man with every right to hate each fiber of his being, down to the crooked turn of his nose, the beds of his fingernails, the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Pride and fear have always been a dangerous combination, drawn into conflict about as often as Draco and Potter themselves.</p><p>            Draco comes to a stop just in front of Potter, raising his eyebrows in desperate hopes to convey for Potter to get out of the way. The message is, however, lost in translation as Potter leans with his tanned arms wrapped around the railing, throwing Draco another strange look. All illusions of calm confidence are shattered as Draco is finally able to identify that strange mix of emotions on Potter’s face: a cautious curiosity, a suspicion draped in anticipation, as if wondering what of Draco has fallen apart, what was lost, and what, if anything, still remains. The familiar friction is not there, as if Potter doesn’t even see the walls that Draco has so-carefully erected and instead sees the vulnerability woven into his robes, the fear burning the back of his throat, the mixture of guilt and unease sloshing about in his stomach. Draco must have been delusional if the most oblivious man in the world can see through his charade so easily.</p><p>           A violent need to get off of this train rips through Draco but the urgency in his mind has paralyzed his body. So, he is still, yet again, standing in front of Harry Potter as all sense of pride rolls off his shoulders and dissipates as it hits the floor. Potter makes no move to leave. He simply shrugs again, emanating that casual nonchalance that is, Draco thinks, horrendously inappropriate considering who they are and what they’ve done. Finally, he turns towards the short set of stairs leading onto the platform and simply says, “Let’s go Malfoy, we’ll miss dinner.”</p><p>          A sudden sense of warmth wraps its arms around Draco’s shoulders and cascades down to the tips of his toes, but fades as Potter walks away. The summer night’s unusual chill takes over as Draco steps off the train and sees the shadow of Hogwarts looming in the distance. Draco allows himself a slight shiver before replacing his carefully constructed mask and starts to follow Potter’s silhouette across the deserted platform.</p>
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